Diesel rigs snoring uphill
four miles off sound near enough
to run us over. Crickets sawing
leg to leg play alto chorus
to the trucks’ basso profundo.
Summer always ends like this—
slabs of music simmering.
You’re reading another book
on Robert Kennedy, while tenth
or twelfth time I’m attempting
to finish The Maximus Poems.
Something teary in the distance,
maybe a scrap of tropical storm.
Something opens into a dark
we know we’ll never satisfy.
You touch the lowest level of sky
to determine if the paint has dried.
Afraid of all that depth I place
one hand on the worm-warm soil
of my favorite garden plot.
We look awkward enough to laugh,
but the crickets douse our humor
and the roar of the trucks seems
closer, personal enough
to absorb our favorite sins.
I’d better return to reading
about the history of Cape Ann,
the agony of facing the sea
every day, the depth compelling,
almost as cruel as the bullet
Bobby Kennedy’s assassin
lodged in our collective brain.
William Doreski’s work has appeared in various e and print journals and in several collections, most recently The Suburbs of Atlantis (AA Press, 2013).
Editor’s Note: Watch for more of William’s work this week!